


our lives that connect

by toba



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:55:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22983637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toba/pseuds/toba
Summary: It is time, and everything is almost nearly pointless.Desmond uses the eye, even as he knows what Juno plans.He wishes he had the courage to let the flare run its course.But he doesn't.He cannot let thousands of years of human progress disappear, and Juno knows it.Her victory is perfect, her plan a masterpiece, brought to fruition over countless centuries.Desmond is dying, but he will not leave quietly.
Relationships: Ezio Auditore da Firenze/Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad
Comments: 48
Kudos: 341





	1. Coming Full Circle

It is time, and everything is almost nearly pointless.

Desmond uses the eye, to save the Earth from the flare,  
even as he knows what Juno plans. He wishes he had the courage to let the disaster run its course.

But he doesn't.

He cannot let thousands of years of human progress disappear, and Juno knows it.  
Her victory is perfect, her plan a masterpiece, brought to fruition over countless centuries.

In the end, he is not saving humanity, he's dooming it.

Dooming it to a terrible, enslaved future,  
at the hands of a malicious entity,  
almost a vengeful goddess.

Desmond is dying, but he cannot leave quietly.  
Will not leave quietly.

How can he? When he knows everything?

Knows how humanity has been strung along for centuries, stuck in the fate preordained by members of a species playing God.

What a horrible destiny.  
He understands that saving the world was important, of Minerva and Jupiter he could even understand their grudging, albeit good intentions.  
Juno on the other hand, was just one messed up bitch.

She expects him to fall soon enough, dead, and powerless.

But, he has a few moments still.  
Life has not yet left his veins.

He knows he is dying, using the machine is going to kill him, that is a certainty that cannot be avoided,  
at least not in the life he has found himself in.

But, he wishes, wishes it wasn't.  
Yearns for a life, that he never had a chance to grasp.

Yearns with all his heart, till the wish is nearly tangible,  
something he can taste on his lips, sense on the horizon.

He wants, he asks, and the machine,  
of which he is the master, if only for a few sole seconds,  
 _listens._

He lets the calculations run their course, the machine humming with power,  
and summons the one most likely to succeed.

He is standing alone in a disconnected space.  
The world awash in tones of gold,  
blinding and lonesome.

Until it isn't, and their is white across his vision, a familiar face.

He holds his breath.

"Desmond." The man speaks, quiet, familiar.  
Altaïr looks young, but he seems to recognise him.

"It was all for nothing Altaïr. We were nothing but pawns in a game of chess." He sighs, as he distantly feels the skin melt of his bones.

But he is detached.  
The pain means nothing,  
he needs to change things, before the machine shuts down.

"Forgive me, I do not understand. For all the time I spent with Apple, I have barely any knowledge at all. I died and thought my work over, I don't know how to help.  
You must tell me how I can do anything." The man speaks, softly.

His eyes are grim, but Altaïr is calm.  
Desmond cannot say the same of himself.

"Altaïr, I cannot do this myself, and you are the only one who has any hope of setting this right. So forgive me, for what I'm going to do." Desmond replies shakily, voice cracking.

He's asking too much, but it has to be done.

Desmond is falling apart at the seams, all his hopelessness pushing forth to the surface.  
Altaïr watches him with somber eyes, as his tears fall, moving forward, reaching for him.

He collapses, trembling, towards him, chest burning.  
It hurts so very much.

Arms hold him, preventing him from sinking to the ground.

Desmond is only just, so grateful, not be alone as he dies.  
To think someone might salvage the mess he'd left everyone in.

He clutches at Altaïr with his tightest grip, sobbing into his chest.

"I'm sure you did the best you could." He consoles, holding Desmond close.

The machine is going to stop soon.

"It wasn't enough." He chokes out, even as he furiously commands it to work.  
Work just a little longer.

Desmond wants to scream as the pain increases, but no, not yet.  
He gives all his important memories to Altaïr, forces the overspent machine to obey.

All he knows, Altaïr must know too, if he is to change anything.

He just hopes he doesn't make him go mad.

Altaïr flinches at the overload of information, but doesn't collapse.  
He stands firm.

"Desmond, what you did was _more than enough_." He mutters finally, letting him go.

Desmond sobs as he hears the words.  
His work was finally done.

He pulls in his last breath and sends Altaïr away, to somewhere before Desmond.  
Anywhere before Desmond.

It was done. He had changed what he could.


	2. Reawakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"When I was very young, I was foolish to believe that out Creed would bring an end to these conflicts.  
>  If only I had the humility to say to myself, I have seen enough for one life, I have done my part.  
> Then again, there is no greater glory than fighting to find the truth."_

Altaïr wakes to twinkling stars, tears dripping past his lashes.

He doesn't remember when last he cried.

It wasn't something he could've allowed himself,  
in the life he had lived. 

But now, as Desmond's memories float around in his head,  
as he grasps at the fading warmth of his body, gold still flashing behind his eyes,  
it hurts.

Because, the truth, it is beyond terrible.  
Altaïr cannot breathe and the air is too thin, 

and oh it burns, but it burns just so.

It tears through something deep inside him,  
and he clutches his chest to somehow try to lessen the throbbing pain,  
not physical, but so excruciatingly real.

It aches to relive what Desmond's memories show him.

The boy had dealt with much,  
pain and crushing responsibility. 

Terrible suffering, all for naught, just to die.

And all the others, of Ezio, of Ratonhnhaké:ton,  
new names, unfamiliar names-  
and he cannot claim, does not claim, to understand them wholly through memories alone, but. 

But they are assassins and they are his, because they've always been his,  
and they all suffer. 

They are all his people, and they all suffer. 

The Creed endures far too much agony over the course of centuries, 

over a war that is pointless,  
over a cause that is worthless.

For cursed items.

So many good men, hurting, or lead astray.

All of it, due to one Isu,  
down to Juno, playing as god.

Due to the crude blindness of the other two,  
Minerva, Jupiter-  
they'd sealed her away in that accursed temple,

they had known,  
but they never gave Desmond a proper warning.

Forcing him to choose while the world ended.

It boils his blood in equal measures to how it makes his throat choke with horror. 

Once, Altaïr had even respected them,  
but the precursors never truly had any compassion for their species, did they?

He'd thought once, that their ideals might have taught better things to humanity,  
but he figures not, anymore. 

Now, he has more knowledge than he'd ever hoped to gain,  
and a large responsibility to fulfill. 

Desmond had reached out to him with his dying breaths,  
pulled a miracle out of thin air to revive a dead man. 

Had given him knowledge and time to change things.

All to ensure that humanity got a better choice. 

He needs to deal with Juno, before the day of the flare arrives.

He can hardly let Desmond down. 

**You won't.**  
A voice whispers through the air, and Altaïr scrambles around furiously,  
but there is no one, but he could've sworn Desmon-

and then he sees him.

Barely more than specter. 

He is not real, Altaïr can tell,  
disappointed.

It is hard to believe and hard to explain, but Desmond is gone and this is-

**An imprint I think, some part of my consciousness that managed to hang on, to you.**  
Desmond replies, looking very real and alive,  
but he is not alive,  
because Altaïr cannot sense the life from him.

Knows that the force in his soul is gone,  
saw it leave as he died to save the world. 

Somehow, even though it is barely any consolation, Altaïr is glad to have him near,  
in this strange and ridiculous manner,  
but present all the same. 

Well, nothing is ridiculous anymore truly,  
considering he just came back to life from death. 

"How is it you managed to make me flesh and bone again, but not yourself?" Altaïr asks quietly,  
heavens knew Desmond deserved to live, more than him, because he'd had his chance already. 

Desmond's form ripples in the wind,  
there one second, gone the next, like a mirage.

**The cost of using the machine was my life, you can see it through my memories,  
I could not have asked it to spare mine.  
But yours, I could catch, revive, and entrust with all of this.  
** Desmond smiles, and he is gone from view.

Altaïr sighs. He can feel his presence lingering.  
A warm breath of wind, omnipresent.

**I managed to toss you back in time, before me. Take care,  
and, you might want to get some clothes.**

Altaïr wipes away the last remnants of salty droplets from his eyes, and takes note of his situation. 

He is young, and he hasn't felt so good, in well, decades. 

He's back at his prime if he assumes correctly, maybe late twenties or thirties,  
he's still wiry, strong, and... naked. 

Yeah.  
This was a bit of a problem. 

Thankfully, at least it was night,  
he could probably manage to arrange something before dawn. 

The change in age was useful, it gave him back all his fighting prowess. 

He seems to be on some abandoned rooftop in a bustling city,  
a place quite familiar from Desmond's shared memories. 

It is obvious he is much forward in time from his own, but not near that of Desmond,  
it is a bit confusing to have knowledge of so many different times, of people,  
but he is glad to know, rather than not.

He is in Venezia.  
Venezia as the one from Ezio's life.

**This makes sense.  
** Desmond comments wryly, phasing into existence besides him again.

"Because Ezio was your prophet?" Altaïr asks. 

**Yes. I think he really grounded me, my anchor, in a way.  
He's also just, a really good man.  
He didn't deserve to be played around by Minerva like that.**

Altaïr agrees internally, because just as much as he's personally connected to Desmond through his memories,  
he is to Ezio too.  
And he knows. 

Altaïr hums for a second, wondering,  
"How come you chose me? Instead of him? Or Ratonhnhaké:ton?"

**You have always been the wisest amongst us assassins.  
The machine pulled you through, when I asked for the one most capable.  
I agree, actually. You were always the best at dealing with knowledge.**  
Desmond shrugs. 

Altaïr frowns, surely not. 

**When I was very young, I was foolish to believe that out Creed would bring an end to these conflicts.  
If only I had the humility to say to myself, I have seen enough for one life, I have done my part.  
Then again, there is no greater glory than fighting to find the truth.**  
Desmond speaks quietly.

Altaïr raises his eyebrows, those were his words, but,  
"I only spoke for the truth. It is not some divine doctrine to prove my character." 

**Exactly, I suppose.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lil bit o ghost demon


	3. what is it i fight for

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Us Assassins, do you remember what we fight for?_

Ezio is being watched. 

But by whom, he does not know, he cannot tell.

A fact which by itself proves to be a testament to his stalkers skill,  
for Ezio is an _assassin_ , a master of stealth,  
to be followed as such is perplexing beyond measure.

He stalks through the streets of Venice, ill at ease, slipping around corners, flitting over roofs,  
trying to lose the tail,  
but the feeling doesn't dissipate.

Not even as he scans the environment with his enhanced sight,  
or waits in ambush,  
can he find his follower, and it grates.

Because Ezio is not some green thief,  
nor some novice in the ways of the hunt.

He has worked as an assassin for greater part of a decade now,  
he has faith in his skills.

And yet, for all that he knows he is being shadowed, can feel a presence,  
he is unable to do anything.

Someone is running circles around him,  
and he is helpless.

Abruptly, the itch at the back of his neck worsens,  
and Ezio whirls around,  
but there is no one he can spot.

The streets are populated, but not overly so,  
yet he fails to find a target.

The sun is high in the sky, it is a time of broad daylight.  
There are no shadows to hinder his vision, no cover for his follower.

How is it that he remains blind?

Ezio frowns in muted frustration and apprehension,  
leaning into an alcove by the street, half hidden, staying alert, wrist poised.

People pass him by, women laughing and men rushing,  
no one in the least worried, carefree with useless chatter.

It is a world of normalcy that he'd once been a part of, as a jovial youth,  
but one he'd left far behind.

Now the haze of the street discomfits him,  
and the feeling of alienation grows as he waits in anticipation.

Who is shadowing him, why?  
How does he even recognize him?

Questions flit through his head as he stares at the people dully,  
dust whirling through the air, pebbles scattering hither thither under zealous feet.

The sunlight is bright on the ground, shadows stark in comparison,  
dark silhouettes of curvaceous women, busy men and errand boys marring the earth.

Ezio startles as he suddenly spots it, a shadow of a hooded figure,  
atop the very building he leans against.

He can feel this is the one.

He wastes not a single second as he turns and scampers up the old facade,  
ignoring the protesting yelps of shocked merchants and stunned ladies.

He barely makes it up in time to find his stalker, perched atop a nearby chapel, incongruous in loose white robes.

No part of the mans face is visible, hidden by the shadow of his cowl,  
hands concealed under loose folds of cloth.

Yet, the man is highly distinguishable,  
all thanks to a scarf of regal white-grey feathers spread across his shoulders.

Most surprisingly, his vision doesn't reveal threat from the man,  
his aura is not that of a traditional enemy.

Ezio rushes towards him at full speed, vaulting over the rooftops, but is too late.  
The man nods at him, turns and jumps.

Then he vanishes.

Ezio snarls in frustration as he jumps down to the street himself,  
no sight of the white clad man.

How does he get away so fast?

Just who in the world is he?  
An ally? Then why run away? Someone neutral, a member of some third party?

A different sort of premonition lingers deep in his belly,  
but Ezio refuses to acknowledge it.

He wanders around for a couple of hours more, in search of the elusive man,  
but sighs in defeat as the sun starts to dip.

The man is gone, but he's surely left a big impression.

It's a bitter taste in humility, that lingers on his tongue.  
He has far more to learn, much to improve.

The man he's encountered has far outclassed him in skills of stealth. 

Ezio makes his way back through the gullies of Venice, just as he had in the morning,  
but at a pace much more sedate.

He absentmindedly pats down his pockets, a habit developed after years of company with thieves,  
and stills at the feel of a piece of parchment.

Ezio definitely doesn't remember putting any piece of paper in his pocket.

Oh fuck no,  
that bastard had come so close and he hadn't noticed?

He winces as he just imagines what Paola might have had to say about this.  
She would have tutted at him in utmost disappointment.

So much for being wary.

He pulls out the folded piece of paper and opens it,  
finding couple of words and a place?

_Come alone, fratello.  
To Armonia_

Ezio has no idea what place Armonia is supposed to be, or where,  
but he's sure he wouldn't have too much trouble finding it.

But, he's not too concerned with the location.

The other words are the ones that hit him.  
Brother? Why call him brother?

The premonition he'd gotten earlier, in view of the white hood, comes back.  
An assassin?

Surely, there aren't anymore, anymore members?

As far as he is aware, there are no more assassins in Italy, other than himself and his uncle.  
Atleast, that is about as much as he assumes.

His uncle would've have mentioned any assassin allies, wouldn't he have?

He wonders.

Ezio stands grimly, as he recalls the mans robes,  
white and hooded.

Maybe they were not quite like his own, but still quite similar to an assassins dress weren't they?

Not to mention, the skills the man had shown.  
Such expertise in stealth.

Ezio has no delusions regarding the truth of their recent meetup,  
he'd seen the man only because he'd wanted to show himself.

He needs to know more.

He debates the merits of consulting his uncle over this first,  
but something inside him does not want to.

It is not that he does not trust him,  
but,  
he tires of this conflict without proper reason.

He tries to get revenge for his family, one target after the other, and yet only newer names keep coming up.  
How many is he even supposed to kill, before the revenge is complete?

It is understandable that the Templar Order caused the death of his kin,  
because his father, Giovanni Auditore stood for something that prevents them from reaching their goals.

But what goals are they?  
What do the Templars truly seek? To continue this battle on and on, against assassins?

For that matter, what is it that the assassins protect?

What is the Creed supposed to mean to him, apart from revenge?

It is not that he thinks that the targets he kills are innocents, they are not,  
but surely, isn't there more to all of this killing?

There are many vicious, terrible men in the world,  
maybe once Ezio would have thought himself heroic enough to kill most of them,  
all in the name of duty, revenge.

But, it is not possible.

It is near a decade to the deaths of his father, his dear brothers,  
and he is no closer to feeling fulfilled without them.

His work keeps him separated from his remaining family,  
and he tires of it sometimes.

Tires of the fact that he has not properly talked to Claudia in ages. Does not know how she truly is.  
Hasn't seen mother have one proper conversation since that terrible night.

He needs to know more, and as much as he trusts his allies, and they trust him,  
he cannot shake the fact that there is always more, hidden from him.

Also, he has seen the man with his gifted vision,  
and his aura has not spoken of danger, not to him.

So he probably means no harm, and as such,  
Ezio doesn't see the need to take along any allies.

So, he would go alone.

If things truly go south, well,  
it isn't as if he doesn't put his life in danger all the time.

If this man truly has any information, Ezio wants to know. Damn the consequences.  
He scales the rooftops and begins his search,

to find what place Armonia is supposed to be.


	4. I see your ghost (come to life)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nothing is true, but literally._

Armonia is a brothel at what according to some may be, the most questionable part of Venice.  
Now, Ezio doesn't particularly mind the rather seedy location, he definitely does not mind if he gets to meet pretty women.

But, still, the place doesn't sit right with him.  
A brothel isn't really what he was expecting to find. 

Somehow, it is hard to correlate the majestic white-clad man he'd seen earlier,  
with the dingy, salacious affairs of this run-down alley.

To be fair, he isn't quite sure what he was expecting, so there.  
A brothel is as good a place as another, in the end, he muses.

It isn't as if such places are bad for hiding, he'd himself worked with Paola and Teodora enough to know that quite well.

Ezio tumbles off the rooftop and slides into the street,  
time to find the mystery man.

He lowers his hood, blending into the crowd in the street.  
He wants to enter the brothel like a normal patron, so without a hood he goes.

He barely makes it to the gate of the place when a giggling woman reaches for him,  
sliding her arm through the crook of his elbow.

She is rather dainty, donned in a jingling dancers costume, pretty face obscured by a shimmering veil.  
She also means no harm, faint blue aura under his eagle vision.

He doesn't resist, allowing her to pull him along with a small smile of acquiescence.

"Look madam, he's arrived!" The woman mutters excitedly to a tall woman standing in the crook of the awning.

Clearly the women recognize him,  
So, they are that man's accomplices?

The other lady is hidden in shadow, so he cannot quite see her face. She seems more wary than the girl on his arm, but not hostile.  
She regards him for a moment in silence, and waives them in after a few seconds.

Ezio barely has a chance to notice anything of his surroundings as he enters the establishment.  
That because, he's crowded by girls as soon as he enters.

Its certainly not an unpleasant way to enter.

"Oh my, how did he manage to grab this one?"

"Stays with Teodora, doesn't he?"

"Why now that's just rude mister, we aren't any worse than Teodora's girls."

Ezio is a tad bit overwhelmed at the attention, the women all clearly know him.

He's also quite intrigued at their appearances.

The women are all quite gorgeous, but it isn't very often that he finds these shades of skin.  
Caramel, honey, burnt sienna.

Ezio has a sudden realization as to why this place is located in such a terrible district.

He knows very well the prejudices that run across the veins of Italian society,  
savages, the people call them,

those with darker skin. Those from different, faraway lands.

Of course the high end courts of Venice, located at expensive pleasure districts, offer pale, Italian beauties.   
Such women of coloured skin, exotic origins are shunned by high-society patrons.

No wonder this brothel is located here.

"Girls." A stern voice cuts through the babble, and the crowd thins in an instant, the women flitting away laughing.

Ezio hopes he hides his shock well enough, as an imposing woman steps forward.  
She is clearly the madam who runs the place, decked in elegant, high fashion.

But, she sports skin the shade of deep walnut, hair parted into dreadlocks, arranged artfully in a bun.  
A moor, seems like.

Ezio is rather stupefied. He has never seen a woman of the sort before,  
and certainly not so regal in manner. It is odd beyond belief.

The only moors he has encountered were male slaves, strange gruesome men bound in chains and collars.

He is not used to such odd features, especially not when paired with such poise and dress.  
It strikes him with irrational confusion and discomfort.

Ezio never truly realized he had such compunctions.

"Good evening, messere." She speaks politely, addressing him.

For some reason, Ezio only manages a hasty nod.  
He doesn't speak, which in hindsight, must have seemed exceedingly rude.

Especially, to a woman of her colour.

She frowns at his lack of response, clearly displeased.

Oh, oh no.

He didn't mean to upset her!  
He immediately tries to make amends but the woman cuts him off before he can speak.

"Follow me, messere, he awaits you." The woman speaks, voice deep and clear.  
She regards him with something cold in her eyes.

He winces at her icy tone, and follows her silently, wanting to speak but not knowing how to.  
He's already managed to offend her, after all.

Ezio is lead down a couple of beautifully decorated, winding corridors,   
past the kitchens, into what seem like the staff quarters.

Small rooms, neat but void of decoration line the halls. Some of the doors are open.  
He can see small articles and personal belongings scattered hither thither.

Probably the place for the courtesans to rest when not otherwise occupied.

"My thanks madam, for allowing this." A deep voice murmurs into the silent air.  
Originating from a person standing by a secluded doorway, waiting.

Ezio turns to look at the man he's come to meet.

He's decked in plain dark robes now, a rough hood hiding his face, still.  
Even dressed drably, his poise and stance are enough to make him striking.

The moorish woman nods, with a pristine motion, and stalks off without a word.

The moment she flits out of sight, Ezio faces the man warily.

The air is tinged with something of charged anticipation,  
and the man just looks at him for a plain few seconds.

Ezio wonders if he has made a mistake. That he's going to be attacked any moment now.

"Come in and sit." The man speaks, finally, opening the door wide, and motioning him in.  
His accent is a bit clipped, it is not the speech of one used to speaking Italian, it seems like.

But Ezio is no expert, he could be wrong. The man might just be used to a different dialect.

He moves in cautiously, keeping the man in view at all times.  
There is a collection of mismatched chairs near a table, and he finds himself a seat.

"You better apologize before you leave." The man murmurs, voice having a touch of warning.

"Excuse me?" Ezio asks, bewildered.  
Why would he apologize to him?

"Not to me. You were rude to madam Endrizzi." The man replies, moving across the room to sit in a chair in front of the table,  
on which there are various metal pieces and trinkets scattered.

It is clear that the man refers to the moorish madam.

Ezio winces, because, he hadn't really meant to be.  
His mother had raised him to respect women, no matter their circumstance.

"I did not mean to be disrespectful, I was just... taken aback." Ezio acquiesces.

"Because of her dark skin?" The man asks, voice curling.

"I am not used to it, yes. Pardon me, but I have never expected one of that kind to be quite so-

"Civilized? Normal?" The man cuts in.

"I do not mean to call them abnormal, it is just..." Ezio flounders.

"I know all about the view people have of them. Savages, they are called, aren't they?" The man continues mercilessly.

"Yes?" Ezio phrases it like a question, feeling weirdly chastised.

"Does madam Endrizzi appear to you a savage? Someone incapable of operating in proper society?" The man asks him, pointedly.

Ezio thinks of the woman, with her imposing gait, and stern, elegant demeanour.  
Fie, she seems hardly any less than any other proper lady that he's met.

Not that, it was wrong if women weren't proper, as per view of 'society',  
courtesans and the lot were respectable too.  
Ezio couldn't begrudge any ladies. 

His reaction to her had been quite upsetting, he realizes.

"No. She seems a fine woman." Ezio admits.

"Good. It would do well for you to not fall into such prejudices." The man admonishes.

Ezio hadn't really expected their conversation to go like this,  
but doesn't argue, nodding at his words.

"The colour of one's skin, texture of hair, circumstance of birth, these are not the things that decide the worth people have. Would you not agree, Ezio?" The man inquires, tilting his head towards him.

Ezio nods and admits, "Actions define the man."

The man nods, and tilts his head away.  
Ezio exhales as the intensity of his voice doesn't bombard him again.

This is not how he expected this meeting to go.

He has so many questions, but really doesn't understand how to ask everything in a way it doesn't all seem like a mess.

He watches as the man works with a tool, carefully crafting a metal bracket. The gesture is oddly familiar.  
He then realizes he's seen such craftsmanship done before.

When Leonardo was carving his blades.  
He is making an assassin's blade.

Ezio doubts he is making it for someone else, it is most probable that it is his own.

"You are an assassin then." Ezio confirms, looking over the pieces of a hidden blade, that the man is assembling.

He wonders how this man came to learn this skill of construction, according to Mario it is a skill long since lost to most in the Creed.  
He himself was only able to have his own constructed by Leonardo only due to a Codex page.

"I would have supposed it to be obvious, fratello." The man replies casually, not looking away from his work.

"All these years I've worked as one, I have never seen you around. I thought I was the only one left of the Italian brotherhood, with my uncle." Ezio continues, frowning.

"Firstly, I am not of the Italian brotherhood. Secondly, while it has deteriorated, the Italian brotherhood has members still. You, your uncle, Machiavelli, La Volpe, to name a few." The man responds, piecing together some spring mechanism.

Machiavelli? Ezio has no idea who that is.  
Does his uncle not know either? Are assassins so scattered they do not have knowledge of each other?

Then again, La Volpe? Ezio had thought he was nothing more than the master of the thieves guild in Florence?  
He'd worked with Ezio, but he'd never admitted to being an assassin?

"Most of your acquaintances are assassins Ezio, they haven't admitted it to you yet. Also, they all know each other." The man remarks, blithely.

"What?" Ezio mutters, stupefied.  
What does he mean by 'most of his acquaintances'? Even if they were, which he doesn't think so, why would they not tell him?

The man carefully makes a twist with his tool and leaves the unfinished blade to turn and look at Ezio.

"While all of this is important to you, I have more pressing things to discuss, I contacted you for a different reason." The man speaks, only a sliver of a mouth visible under the shadow of his hood.

What in the world? Does he think he can move on and change the topic without an explanation?

"Well no, I'm not discussing anything till you explain what you meant about my accomplices being assassins, also, how in the world do you know me, much less my accomplices? For that matter, who are you? Can you first tell me your name at least?" Ezio scowls at the man.

The man stares at him with narrowed eyes, probably?  
It's not like Ezio can tell, what with his face under the goddamn shadow the whole time.

"While you're at it, could you lower your hood? You can see my face, it's only fair I see yours." Ezio hisses again, before the man can begin.

"Demanding, aren't you." The man only snorts.

The nerve of him.   
How is Ezio the one being demanding here? He's the one who's been demanding things without explaining anything!

He releases an exasperated sound, "That didn't answer a single question I asked. Nor did it tell me who you are. "

"It didn't, I wonder." The man replies again, dryly.

Now this is ridiculous, he's doing this just because he can.  
"You're being difficult on purpose!" Ezio screeches, enraged.

The man snorts with muffled laughter.

Ezio puffs up, about to launch into a rant, but the man cuts him off,

"It's really complicated to explain who I am. I think you'll be more confused if I remove the hood." The man finally explains.

Its a stupid explanation. It doesn't make anything clearer.  
"Does that mean I know you? It's fine then, let me see your face, how can it be more confusing than not knowing who you are?" Ezio argues.

The man sighs, and pushes back his hood in a fluid motion.

Ezio stares, dumbstruck for a moment.

Brilliant gold orbs meet his own, and wow,  
those are some real beautiful eyes.

Then, Ezio registers the face, and frowns,  
it's a handsome face no doubt, but,  
he's seen that exact face before.

At least a part of it?  
But, as for where he's seen it... surely not?

"You are a descendant of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad?" Ezio asks, perplexed, because the resemblance is stunning.

This man has the same visage as the statue sitting in their Villa at Monteriggioni.

"No Ezio." The man shakes his head, sharp face twisting in an amused smirk.

What does he mean? Surely, he can't mean to say-

"My name is Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad."

Ezio inhales, then exhales.

"No it's not, Altaïr is dead. Has been dead for years. If you were going to choose someone to impersonate, you could've at least chosen someone who's alive." He frowns.

"I told you, you wouldn't understand." The man rolls his eyes.

What is the actual world? Does this man expect him to buy this story?  
This delusional drama?

"Have you gone mad?" Ezio grits his teeth.

"Of course not. Its hard to believe, but I can explain if you're willing to listen." The man returns dryly.

"Listen to what? That you came back from the dead?" Ezio hisses.

"Yes."

Ezio has had enough.

"Bullshit. I'm leaving, I don't have to listen to this drivel." He scowls.

What a waste of time this has been.  
The man is clearly not in his senses.

Any respect or apprehension Ezio had about him is long gone. He's probably just some idiot who's deluded himself into believing lies.  
Or, he's probably been driven mad, due to his work as an assassin. Ezio wouldn't consider it an impossibility.  
What a waste of his skills.

"You aren't going anywhere, Ezio." The man continues, voice going hard.

"I'd like to see you try and stop me." Ezio snorts.

Big mistake,   
he realizes.

The next he knows, he's pushed up against the wall, his arms twisted over his head, a blade at his throat.

"I said, you aren't going anywhere." A voice growls, and Ezio flinches.

"You should listen to me, novice. You are not strong enough to show me such disrespect." Gold eyes flash dangerously, boring into his own.

Till about ten seconds ago, Ezio used to think he was pretty strong,  
and it's truly been a long time since anyone has come near to challenging him in martial skill.  
But, in this case, he's severely outclassed.

He's so far out of this man's league it's actually _funny_.  
Ezio hadn't even seen him move, hadn't even had the chance to activate his vision, before he was pinned.

He gulps as the sharp knife digs into his neck, at the verge of drawing blood.

"Alright, sure, I'm definitely not going anywhere." Ezio agrees slowly, voice thin.

Some part of Ezio isn't truly scared, because for some godforsaken reason, the man still appears blue in his eagle vision,  
but that part is crushed under the fear he feels, as a blade is pressed harshly against his very soft, exposed neck.

"This is your fault Desmond. It would have been better not to reveal my identity to him. I told you this would happen. He's unnecessarily confused" The man mutters, irritated, mouth twisting into a scowl.

Who in the world is Desmond?  
Is this madman calling Ezio, 'Desmond'?

**He would've ended up unnecessarily confused no matter what, to be honest. At least now we have time to explain things to him, and prevent some of the terrible things that happened.**

A placating voice floats through the air, and Ezio stiffens.

There is no one else in the room, what-

**Could you let him go? He said he isn't going anywhere. Hello Ezio.**

The voice greets him,  
and Ezio sees the ghost, appearing out of thin air, made of shimmering, glowing light.

He does not scream, Ezio does not get scared of foolish, imaginary things like actual ghosts.  
At least, he likes to think so,

and he's wrong.

He shrieks.  
Because holy fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ezio is really young here tho, he's like 28? or 29?   
> This is also why Altaïr kicks his ass here, cuz, Ezio is far from his strongest at this point.  
> This is the time he's at venice, just about to get the apple from Borgia, to be declared a prophet.
> 
> Put in some aspects of racial discrimination, because why the hell not,  
> it sure existed back then.
> 
> Ghost Desmond freaking out poor Ezio.
> 
> Also, where is this going, I thought I knew, but I don't.


	5. to sing of your legend, witness it come home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You can't always know all the answers."_

Ezio blinks groggily, staring at a dull nondescript ceiling.  
The bed is warm and he really does not want to get up.

He fell asleep? Huh.  
Weird dreams.

**He's awake.**

A glowing, translucent face, looms over him suddenly.  
Oh, crap.

"About time." Someone sighs.  
He feels his stomach sink, nerves frazzled at the thought that-no- _this was not a dream_.

Ezio nearly bolts upright but stops midway, a hand covers his mouth and pushes him back down.

"You will not scream again." Gold eyes glare down at him.

There is a ghost in the room, and a dead man staring him down.  
The dead man is apparently, Altaïr Ibn-LaʼAhad.  
Lovely.

Ezio nods very slowly, barely breathing.

The man removes his hand, and Ezio follows the movement with cautious eyes, silently.  
He dares not underestimate the strength, or speed of those arms.

He sits up carefully, looking at the ghost next, who is glowing faint golden,  
and swallows.

Desmond isn't it? His name?

Never in his life has Ezio felt so utterly out of his depth.  
The impossible is true, he sits beside a specter, a dead man wrought from the grave.

He has never been religious. Should he have been?  
And this, this frightens him. Because he doesn't know.

What even is happening to him.

 **All of this must be so confusing, but bear with us Ezio, it is not nearly as terrifying as it seems.**  
The ghost speaks, form shifting in and out of focus,  
hovering nearby, idly, cross-legged.

Ezio does not have in him the strength to answer.

"You're going to have a hard time processing all this, but it's imperative that you do listen, carefully."  
Altaïr mutters, bluntly, seated in a chair pressed close to the bed.

Ezio only nods, swallowing once more, as Altaïr twists a knife expertly with one hand.

 **You are being really rough, you could be a bit kinder you know. This is tough for him. He's so young, doesn't even have a beard yet.**  
The ghost grumbles at Altaïr.

Ezio stares at the spirit, aghast.  
What has his beard got to do with anything? And, he's not that young, for heavens sake.

"He's no child either, Desmond.  
He is an assassin, he doesn't want kindness, he wants answers." Altaïr speaks slowly, gold eyes unfathomable.

They burn into his own.

Ezio swallows as he hears him speak- he's no child-  
it's something to see someone feel that way.

It hits him, then,  
Mario, La Volpe, everyone,  
they treat him like that. Like a child who knows no better.

Like they need to monitor, nudge, constantly.  
Like he needs babysitting.

It isn't that he doesn't appreciate them, or their help,  
but they are all so _vague_. All the damn time.

He's come to realize they all hide things, telling him portions and snippets, as if knowing the whole picture is beyond him.  
As if he is too weak to know.

"Tell me, then. What is _happening_?" Ezio asks, wary, looking at Altaïr.

Sitting at his _bedside_.

And gods-it's-  
something.

It's something else, to behold him.

His eyes are haunting, and they do not belong on a face that seems hardly much older than his,  
in fact, they scarce seem anything a human should posses at all.

It's-Ezio is talking to one of _the greatest assassins to have ever lived._  
And, it's sort of sinking in, very slowly.

Before now, all the figures in the crypt, the statues of the great assassins, they'd been nothing to him.  
They'd been scarcely anything more than _fancy stories_.

Yet, Altaïr is now here-alive-  
if this is something not divine, or hellish,  
Ezio doesn't know.

"What do you know of the Pieces of Eden?" Altaïr asks, voice careful.

What does he know of them? Pretty much nothing,  
to be blatantly honest.

"Not much of anything. Just that they are things of supposedly great power." Ezio admits.

"Correct. Artifacts of tremendous power, with the capability to do the impossible." Altaïr begins, voice grave,  
and Ezio listens, rapt.

His voice is soft and grave, as he speaks of terrible things, wonderful things.  
The words carry with them a sort of solemn weight, and Ezio can tell.

This knowledge, it is costly, and powerful.  
And it is being given to _him_.

The more he understands, the worse it gets.  
At some point he almost does not want to know more, but yet, he does. 

Throughout the tirade, Altaïr does not falter.  
He is a man who knows much, has somehow, witnessed these things,

and yet, his voice does not hold discomfort, or fear.  
There is not a shred of terror anywhere in those unnerving eyes.

Ezio wonders, but does not dare ask.

He learns of the mystical powers the Pieces of Eden have, learns about all the different kinds of Pieces, shrouds, apples, swords.  
To control people, to heal mortal injuries.

It sounds like made up stories, told to amuse curious children.

But, it isn't that hard for him to accept now.  
What with a ghost floating not three feet away.

He can now also understand why the assassins fight over such Pieces.  
Such frightening power. How much damage, in the wrong hands?

"So, these things, where did they come from? Are they artifacts stolen from heaven? Crafted by god? For all the impossible things they do." Ezio finally asks, mind whirling.  
He is going to have a headache.

"No. Nothing divine, or heavenly about these things. They were simply made by those who came before."

"Those who came before? Before what?" Ezio mutters, perplexed.

"Us. Those beings were the Isu, who existed on this Earth for much longer before us humans were created." Altaïr continues.

"These Isu, whatever they were, how did they even-how did they create such things?" Ezio questions, baffled.

"They were much more advanced than us, smarter, more knowledgeable."

"But how does that..."  
Ezio trails off awkwardly, not able to complete the, sort-of-dull question.

How does that even explain anything? More advanced?  
The things they created seem nothing less than magic.

Altaïr regards him with his inscrutable gaze,  
and Ezio is almost so freaked, he wonders if the man can read minds.

Is he one of them? The Isu?

 **To explain it in the simplest way, Ezio, they had such tremendous knowledge of calculation, of uh-something called science, they could do things that very well seemed like magic.**  
Desmond explains with a grimace, not rudely.

_Calculations?_

How in the world are calculations supposed to create such things? Like, numerical calculation?

Altaïr and his ghost look at him, and sigh.

 **Look, it's fine if you don't get it. Heck, I'm from a time where technology was highly advanced, and even I don't get it. The exact details, they're not, uh, we can't really understand them,  
any of us. Not yet, atleast.**  
The ghost tries to console him, waving his hands awkwardly.

Ezio is not consoled.  
He is touched that the ghost seems like a nice ghost.

But, he is even more confused.

What he says doesn't quite compute in Ezio's brain. From a different time?  
It seems to him like godly power, this whole matter.

"So, those beings of wisdom, they were gods?" Ezio asks out loud, wondering.

"No. There is no need to consider them as such." Altaïr speaks firmly.

No need? What?

And as for that matter, are they one of them? The Isu?

"Are you one of them? The both of you? Are you Isu?" Ezio asks again, frowning.

 **Oh no, no, absolutely not.**  
Desmond sounds horrified.

 **We're humans, like you. The reason why we're-uh-a bit strange right now, is because we used Isu technology.  
Not the artifacts, but something even more powerful, made by the Isu, yeah. I mean, he came back from the dead? I'm like, stuck half alive like this?**  
The ghost continues, a bit awkwardly.

Being a ghost falls is not exactly something Ezio would call just 'strange', more like 'terrifying'.

Also, more Isu technology?  
Something even more powerful?

The power over life and death.

The knowledge burns,  
can he bring back his family?

These two have clearly done something like that?

They have used such powerful items, it explains why they know so much of these Pieces of Eden.  
But why is one of them in the flesh, while the other isn't?

Also, Altaïr he recognizes, but who is Desmond exactly?

"So, why am I the one who gets to know all this? I mean, I am not ungrateful for the knowledge but,  
you two are clearly doing something which is beyond me. And I just don't know what I'm even supposed to do anymore,  
and I mean, what do you want from _me_?" Ezio finishes, voice weak.

"You will help us, that's why we came to you." Altaïr replies,  
which explains _absolutely nothing at all_.

**Don't worry, we'll explain everything.**

This phrase is grating on his nerves. 

Ezio gives them a scowl.  
He doesn't want to be pulled around in circles. 

"This is-ugh-it's irritating. I have so many questions, I don't even know whats what anymore, what to think.  
Can't you be a bit more forthcoming? I need proper answers. This whole thing, I dont-" Ezio finally breaks, voice cracking, in frustration and probably a touch of hysteria. 

His tone must've been truly cutting, because both of them go absolutely still. 

His hands are trembling. It is all too much. 

These artifacts, their power, god like beings.  
The responsibility of the knowledge he's been given.  
He wonders if he made a mistake, coming here. There is something so much bigger at play. 

Mario, Paula, they are probably right. He is such a child.  
Cannot handle such things, the responsibility of knowledge. 

So for that matter, do they know all this?  
Is this why they hide things from him? 

He just doesn't _know_ anymore. 

Ezio clenches his hands together, trying to hide the shaking, 

it probably does not work. 

**Oh Ezio, we didn't mean to-uh, it must all be hard to take in.**  
Desmond sighs in apology, his glow dimming. 

Altaïr's eyes soften a little.  
Or not, he probably just imagines it, as Altaïr puts away his blade with deft fingers. 

"Ezio, you will be fine. Just breathe." He speaks, his voice is softer, soothing now. 

Also, that's exactly what he's trying to do, but it's not exactly that easy. It's hard to breathe. 

Suddenly, calloused hands wrap around his own, warm. It shocks him.  
He hadn't realized how cold his hands had become. 

Also, what in the fuck. 

Ezio sits in silence for a while, staring, somewhat stupefied at Altaïr. 

He's definitely not the sort of person who just touches anyone.  
So, Ezio must have looked really scrambled. For this much pity. 

Its surprising, but not really unwelcome, the touch grounds him, allows him to calm down.  
His hands feel warmer, they do not tremble so much. 

He then notices. 

"I-uh-I think you're missing a finger." Ezio blurts out, staring at Altaïr's left hand,  
bereft of the ring finger. 

It comes out way blunter than what he was aiming for. 

Desmond snorts. 

He pales. That came out rude, didn't it? 

Because obviously, Ezio is charming and graceful,  
and that is definitely the way someone addresses an issue like that. 

He winces internally and hopes Altaïr does not strangle him. 

"Seems like I am." Altaïr hums dryly. He doesn't even move away.  
He isn't exactly smiling, but his mouth isn't quite so severe. 

He's amused, Ezio thinks. 

"This sort of mutilation was a distinct ritual back in my time, when one received the hidden blade." Altaïr explains, expression changing into a slight frown,  
clearly not fond of the practice. 

He pulls himself together and listens to the man. 

And Ezio is suddenly reminded that he,  
Altaïr Ibn La'Ahad, who is sitting with him, is from a time far in the past. 

Gods, this is the person who wrote those old, yellowed codex pages. 

The pages which contained countless invaluable designs, inventions, information,  
for weapons, medicine, and a lot more. 

He is the reason Ezio has his own hidden blades. 

"Yeah, you wrote about it in your Codex." Ezio realizes, remembering Leonardo's god awful prank.  
From when he'd made Ezio's blades. 

Leo had told him he needed to cut his finger and he'd even agreed to it, white-faced.  
Only for Leonardo to burst out in laughter over his horrified visage. 

Apparently the Codex contained improved designs that didn't require the sacrifice.  
The ritual mutilation wasn't necessary any longer. From the pages, it seemed Altaïr had been strongly against it. 

Look, he would've cut the finger if it was truly necessary, really, he wasn't a crybaby.  
But really, he sure didn't mind that he got to keep it. (Thank god, really.) 

So, this man is also the reason he has ten fingers. 

"You've read my Codex?" Altaïr speaks, not really sounding surprised, sharing a look with Desmond. 

"Well, yes but not exactly, I mean, I know what's written in it, but only because a friend translated actually. I have no skill in arabic." Ezio replies sheepishly. 

The fact nags at Ezio, for some reason.  
He looks at Altaïr consideringly, and suddenly it clicks. His accent. Italian is obviously not his mother tongue. 

"How did you learn italian?" He asks, confused. 

"From you and Desmond, I suppose." Altaïr replies flippantly. 

Wait, what? 

"From me? How even..." Ezio trails off as Altaïr shrugs. 

"So, you're back to making no sense?" He sighs at him. 

"Telling you anything more today will not help you. Try to process through what you've learned, first." 

**Yes, sorry Ezio. It's better if we tell you things piece by piece. It'll be easier for you in the long run.**  
Desmond joins in. 

"So, I'll have to keep coming back, to meet you two." Ezio muses. 

"Of course." 

"What would you both do if I never came back. What if I change my mind, write this off as a bad dream, and turn away?" Ezio speaks, softly. 

He isn't really sure that he isn't going to do exactly this. 

They frighten him, these two, in a way no one ever has. 

They are beyond human, powerful.  
He has no clue what they're trying to do, or what he's supposed to do for them. 

The hands around his own tighten, and Altaïr pulls him forward.  
He is too startled to resist. 

Their foreheads touch, and Ezio swallows as he meets intense gold eyes,  
so close. Way too close. 

They almost seem to glow.  
What spectacular eyes, he thinks for a fleeting second. 

"We trust you, Ezio Auditore, and we need your help. That is enough reason, you will come back." 

It is hardly anything less than a command.  
It is spoken with so much power and purpose, he doesn't even want to disagree. 

Ezio scrambles backwards as Altaïr lets him go,  
his hands grow cold immediately, strangely bereft without the warmth of Altaïr's hands. 

**Also, I mean, how could you not come, you definitely want to know more.**  
Desmond smiles at him wryly. 

Ezio curses under his breath. 

**Beware though, your friends are keeping a close eye on you always, you must not lead them to us. They do not know of these things, we would like to keep it that way.**

A small sliver of relief slides through him when he realizes, that no, his friends aren't aware of such things,  
are certainly not keeping it a secret from them. 

But, he does want to tell them, even if only one of them, wants someone else's opinions on this whole matter. 

"Why can't I tell them." Ezio scowls at Desmond.  
Because he's not a total idiot, thank you very much. 

"Surely you're capable of keeping one secret like this, novice?" Altaïr drawls at him dryly, mocking. 

Ezio feels something turn in his stomach, he knows Altaïr is baiting him,  
but something about the way the word rolls off his tongue. 

'Novice'. 

He is far too prideful for his own good. 

He can do it, obviously. 

Ezio is an assassin too, a good one he thinks, if not as insanely strong as Altaïr,  
but really, it isn't a fair comparison. The bastard has got a lifetimes worth of experience. 

And, there is some part of himself that wants to prove itself to this man. 

Not,  
that he's going to acknowledge it. 

Still, like a fool, he narrows his eyes, taking the bait. "Fine." 

It wasn't as if he could truly, actually tell anything to Teodora, or Mario.  
Who'd believe his words? Of a ghost?  
A dead man walking, Altaïr Ibn La'Ahad no less. 

Yes, that would go great. 

Not even Leo, with all his eccentricities, could possibly believe something like this. 

**No, do take this seriously Ezio. Teodora, your uncle, they are assassins, just like you, even beyond you in some aspects, considering they have more experience. You must not bring them here at any cost. Watch out carefully.**  
Desmond warns. 

This again. 

"No one, apart from Mario, and myself is an assassin. Definitely not Teodora." He hisses. 

The image of Teodora jumping across rooftops like himself is laughable.  
Utterly blasphemous. 

"This is an argument for yet another time. Leave it Desmond, he will not believe now." Altaïr rolls his eyes.  
The whole sentence is spoken with a tone of, 

'He's too dull to get it, so leave it.'  
Ezio only narrowly prevents himself from hissing at Altaïr.  
He thinks he's so much better, does he? 

What a prick. He didn't need to rub in his superiority that much. 

"They have no reason to hide it from me!" 

"You'd be surprised." 

"Fine then, explain." 

"You can't always know all the answers." Altaïr sighs at him, exasperated. 

As if _Ezio_ is being unreasonable. 

**Alright, enough, you two.**  
Desmond butts in, tutting. 

Ezio inhales heavily and turns to speak to Desmond instead. 

The ghost is far more straightforward, and better, after all. 

"Is it fine if I come to visit here? How long do you plan to stay in one place?" Ezio questions. 

**This place is perfectly safe, no one will bother us here. Also, we aren't going anywhere anytime soon.**

Safe? This place? 

"This place is a brothel." Ezio states dryly. 

**Yeah, but its fine, madam Endrizzi is-uh-on our side, so to say.**

Ezio recalls the fierce madam of the establishment. 

"How did you even manage to gain her loyalty?" He frowns. 

"Some of us don't discriminate on the colour of skin Ezio." Altaïr hums. 

That, was a low blow. 

"It wasn't on purpose! I was taken aback, I did not mean to be rude!" He flails. 

Altaïr gives him a bland smile. 

Ezio exhales noisily, _this_ close to yelling. 

"Well fine, but surely, it couldn't have been that simple." He frowns.  
Madams in brothels controlled quite a lot of information, traded in expensive secrets.  
Their loyalty was not easily bought. 

"Women of colour, exotic race, life is harder for them, in comparison to those of fairer skin. They are highly discriminated, easily abused.  
They are outcasts. People are unwilling to work with them.  
Madam Endrizzi has had a hard time running this place, precisely due to this.  
I agreed to help her out in certain things, in return for such favour, she will not betray me."  
Altaïr sighs. 

Well, that is a surprisingly good solution. Ezio can guess what Altaïr must help her out with.  
Having a powerful guard most probably deterred shitheaded bastards from causing her trouble. 

So, really, she had no reason to betray him, unless she wanted to lose his protection. 

**That's really not how all of it went.**  
Desmon smiles, conspiratorial. 

"I have no idea what you mean." Altaïr scowls at the ghost for some reason, turning away to assemble the hidden blade, lying in pieces on the table. 

"It's not?" Ezio asks, interested. 

**Wasn't the original plan, for sure.**

"Desmond." Altaïr hisses. 

"It wasn't?" Ezio prods, even more curious at Altaïrs strange reaction. 

**Altaïr was literally walking down a street when one of the madam's girls was dragged out. Some rich brute was upset she'd dropped some wine of his finery, he'd nearly pummeled her half to death. Madam Endrizzi was trying to save her, but she couldn't really do anything against his guards. Her own guards were useless cowards. No passer-by was willing to help their sort of women, except, of course-**

Desmond grins at Altaïr cheekily. 

"Stop making it sound like that." Altaïr grits his teeth. 

"Like what? Like the dashing, mysterious hero you are?" Ezio bursts out laughing. 

**Don't take him at face value, he's mush inside. Wants to help everyone, protector of justice and all that.**  
Desmond continues with glee. 

Altaïr's grimaces, discomfort visible in his shoulders. 

Something about this incident makes Ezio grin very wide. He can just imagine Altaïr snapping silently. It probably didn't even take him a minute to deal with the riffraff.  
Oh god, he's probably the darling of the brothel, he can just imagine Altaïr, serious and awkward, in front of cooing women. The image brings suspiciously large amounts of joy. 

Altaïr scowls at Desmond first, then turns to Ezio. 

"Now don't be mad at me. What did I do?" 

"I _will_ kill you, novice." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its lovely to see your support, thanks for all the kudos and comments!


	6. the will to bear burden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What does it mean to be an assassin?_

"You are late." Altaïr begins, voice thin.

"The day has just begun?" Ezio ventures confused, staring at the bright sky,  
is he missing something?

"I told you to come at dawn, that means sunrise. It is almost near noon." 

Dawn? Why would anyone begin their day at that ungody hour?  
He'd assumed, like most normal people would have, that _dawn_ , correlated to _morning_.  
But, something told Ezio if he voiced that sentiment out loud, Altaïr wasn't going to be impressed.

"I had to eat something. I'm not doing anything on an empty stomach." Ezio argues weakly.

Altaïr glowers at him silently.

Ezio tries not to shuffle under that intimidating gaze, wincing inwardly.

"Lousy. Absolutely lousy, that's what you are." He reprimands sharply, clearly in the mood to be a jerk.

Ezio tampers down a scowl, barely holding in a retort.  
His tone left a lot to be desired.  
If it had been any other acquaintance of his, Ezio would have straight up left, appalled at the disrespect. 

So what if he is late by a couple of hours, honestly it is hardly a big issue,  
why make such a ridiculous fuss about it.

"Come, lets not waste any more time than what you already have." Altaïr continues irritably, stalking out to small,  
expertly hidden courtyard, connected to the private backyard of the brothel.

Ezio follows him silently, put off by Altaïr's rough attitude.

"You will be here by dawn henceforth." Altaïr warns him as he throws off his heavy cloak.

Ezio doesn't bother giving him an answer, giving him a sullen glare.  
No communication, no reasons just random orders? Who does he think Ezio is, some errand boy?

"So how long are you going to just keep standing there? You have anything to show, novice? Or are you completely green?" Altaïr continues uncaring, standing poised.

Ezio blinks. 

"I'm supposed to fight you?" He asks, eyebrows furrowed.

"No, I'm just here sprouting rhetoric for fun." Altaïr replies, dryly.

Ezio scowls, "Look, I appreciate the offer to spar, but don't we have other things more important to deal with? Like teaching me more about the Pieces of Eden? The Isu? The Templars?"

"You will learn about all of it, in due time. These are not things to be digested in a day or even two. They require weeks of deliberation. Thankfully, we have time, so we do not need to rush. We'll go over everything one by one. Including all the skills of an assassin, properly." Altaïr replies calmly.

For once, he's given Ezio a clear answer.

"So you're going to train me?" Ezio surmises, something odd flitting through his chest at the idea.

"Well I've very well claimed you as one of _my_ assassins, so yes, I will most definitely train you." Altaïr agrees, gold eyes flashing in the sun.

Something proud swells in his chest and Ezio grins.  
He gets to actually learn from Altaïr, not just about things like the Pieces of Eden, or the Isu conspiracy,  
but about being an assassin.

Being an assassin.

"Weapons?" He asks.

"Go ahead." Altaïr agrees, but doesn't make a move to reach for a blade.

"You won't be using any?" Ezio asks, confused.

"I won't be needing one." Altaïr replies after a bit of a delayed pause, mouth tilting up in the slightest of smirks.

Oh, now would you look at that.  
What a show off, Ezio thinks inwardly, laughing.

He's going to make him regret saying that, Ezio isn't that incompetent.

He grabs his sword and lunges with a clean strike.

Altaïr dodges with clean steps, flitting out of range in precise motions.

Ezio presses in, trying not to let him get a free range of motion.  
A laugh is huffed into the air as Altaïr ducks under a particularly wide swing and kicks him on his unguarded flank.

Well, Ezio isn't particularly fazed,  
he brushes off the momentum and makes a clean slice.

Altaïr keeps up with ease, even as Ezio warms into the stances and increases his speed,  
bumping up the intensity and intricacy of his jabs and swings.

It's no surprise he's able to do that. Ezio knows Altaïr has superior dexterity and agility, a better eye for movements and attacks, honed sense of razor sharp intuition.

Ezio knows he's better than him in every possible way.  
He's very literally a living legend after all.

But, even if he could get one hit on him, he'd take it.

Ezio stays on the offensive, trying to find patterns, rhythms, any opening in the way Altaïr moves,  
its easier said than done,  
he's just so fast.

Even more than fast, it feels like Altaïr knows Ezio's every move before he even makes it.

As another swing goes wide, he gets knocked to the side with a well placed hit,  
but Ezio twists his sword and just manages to snag Altaïr's shirt.

The cloth stretches at the intrusion,  
but before he can pull him in, Altaïr shoves it apart and kicks him away.

Ezio takes three steps back and fixes his stance, pushing down his rumpled hood and curling back his hair.  
The strands are starting to stick to his forehead.

"You have decent raw strength, speed and intuition, but you don't have the experience to utilize them to their maximum potential." Altaïr begins softly, even as Ezio lunges again.

Ezio doesn't get distracted, flexing his fingers and tightening his grip on the sword.  
He isn't going to stop this soon.

This time, even as Altaïr goes to make a comment about his form, he swings his sword and waits for him to dodge, jabbing at him with his free hand.

Altaïr stops mid sentence and lurches back abruptly, avoiding the hidden blade Ezio unsheathed.

With two weapons, his attacks lose accuracy,  
but that doesn't quite matter this close up.

"Not bad, novice." Altaïr breathes out, as he finally stops dodging and shifts stances to go semi-offensive.  
Smacking at the flat of his blade, and tugging at his shirt to easily interrupt Ezio's momentum.

Really, Ezio doesn't really remember his shirt causing him so much trouble ever before, he muses darkly.

He takes another heavy blow to the pelvis and grits his teeth,  
this can't really go on for much longer.

Ezio is really, really getting short of breath, because if he takes a moment to retreat and take it any slower his attacks don't stand a chance.

Altaïr makes a subtle twitch and strikes the flat of his sword hard enough for Ezio to lose balance,  
he tries to compensate for the shift of weight, but Altaïr grabs his free hand and twists it, forcing him to retract the hidden blade.

He manages to make a broken wheeze as he gets pushed back and slammed down. Ezio curls in and tries to soften the blow.

The world tilts alarmingly, his head hitting the surface hard and he's lying on the ground in a heap.

Ezio tries not to heave, short on breath, as a blade touches his neck,  
strong fingers crushing his dominant arm, making him drop the sword.

"That's the end of this spar." Altaïr remarks, releasing his grip on Ezio.

Ezio pays him absolutely zero attention as he closes his eyes and clutches his head,  
because ouch, that fall hurt.

There's a poignant pause, and a sharp inhale of air.

"Let me see." Altaïr continues, voice just a touch softer, as gentle fingers drag away his hands from his skull.

Ezio tries not to wince as he prods at the bruise forming on the back of his head.

"Sorry, I should've been more careful." Altaïr frowns, voice going severe.

"I'm pretty sure this one is my fault, since I fought bad." Ezio grumbles halfheartedly, trying to ignore the throbbing.

"No, that was a bad move, I could've hurt you much worse. Head injuries are dangerous. You got off lightly because your reflexes allowed you to curl up."

"It's alr-

"No it's not. I miscalculated, sorry." Altaïr cuts him off, voice apologetic.

If anything, its sort of embarrassing to listen to the apology, since Ezio lost so very spectacularly in that spar.

Altaïr helps him up and he limps inside.

The dark interiors are a welcome relief after the bright sun, and Ezio sits patiently as Altaïr examines the bruise.

 **I told you to be nicer and a bit more level-headed you know.**  
A familiar voice muses.

Altaïr all but sighs in defeat, "I know, this one's on me."

Ezio smiles as Desmond grins at him, shimmering into existence onto the nearby hearth.

"Hello Desmond, I'm fine. I've had injuries far worse, really." Ezio laughs, because that was indeed true, and a little bump like this wasn't really anything more than a tiny bother.

"Hold still." A voice warns softly, as a wet cloth smooths over his head.  
The water feels good after the sweat he's just managed to accumulate outside.

He leans back and lets Altaïr wipe his head, careful fingers carding through his hair.  
It's strangely soothing.

Ezio lets out a halfhearted exhale and the fingers curl, rubbing in a soothing ointment.

He tries not to shiver as those fingers gently prod through the area, carefully sectioning his hair.

 **So how bad did you lose?**  
Desmond all but grins, unrepentant.

"Spectacular. I don't think I've lost this badly to anyone ever before." Ezio replies dryly.

"To be fair, you've never met anyone as strong as me before." Altaïr hums, moving back.

**So he wasn't that bad?**

"Oh no, he was terrible, not the worst though. But, as much as you find it all very amusing, you might want to tone down that grin, considering your own story with training." Altaïr remarks dryly.

 **I'm good at fighting, I have no clue what you mean.**  
Desmond replies with a smug smile.

"Some people would call the animagus procedure cheating." Altaïr rolls his eyes.

**Don't listen to him Ezio.**

"Sure." Ezio acquiesces easily, hiding a smile as Altaïr narrows his eyes at him.

"Stay here and rest for a while, Desmond will tell you more about the Apples of Eden today. Some of the girls will probably invite you later for lunch, so you wont starve. Leave if you feel like it. Just get back here at dawn tomorrow, I won't be taking any excuses." Altaïr speaks, grabbing his hooded cloak and a weapons belt.

Ezio barely has time to nod as he disappears out the door.

"He's a bit rude isn't he." He comments, giving Desmond a dry look.

The ghost phases out of view and back again, laughing.

**He can be very rude, but normally, he's actually pretty calm and patient. He's just a bit upset today.**

"Upset about what?" Ezio asks, curious.

**You.**

"What did I even do? Wait, is he that mad because I was late? That's extreme." Ezio sputters.

**He's not upset at you, or because of anything you did, more like because of your, let's say, circumstance.**

Ezio tilts his head, confused.

**Over the years, there have been times, and places, where the assassins have flourished, and times where they haven't. If I were to be very frank, the Creed from Altaïr's time, the Levantine brotherhood, it was one of the most glorious chapters in our history. I can't even begin to explain to you, how different things were, there were so many of us, the Creed had a highly developed structure. The Creed then, it was magnificent, it stood for justice, for truth. Not just the war against the templars or the Isu.**

**There was a proper system for training, for initiation of recruits. There were backups on missions, contacts and scouts in every large city throughout the Middle Eastern nexus. Compared to all of that, the Italian brotherhood is literally nothing more than fragments. It's just, tough for him. He knows that someone like you, the last of the assassins, you're vulnerable. You didn't get the proper environment to hone your skills, you grew up with so many challenges. Your allies, are scattered, unable to help you the way the assassins of the old would have. Worst of all, the Creed here has lost direction, it's purpose. What it means to be an assassin, its diluted.**

Ezio exhaled slowly, almost tasting the glory from a time long gone, stuck in broken fragments, stemming from the sorrow in Desmond's voice.

"My uncle told me about a Creed like that. A magnificent brotherhood, from my grandfather's time." Ezio began, "To be honest, I never really could relate, because there was hardly anything tangible to relate to. My uncle could barely tell me anything more than the barest fragments from that time, since it had all begun to fall apart with my grandfathers death, long gone by the time by father and him were men. To all of it, I was barely more than a stranger."

 **Do you regret being an assassin, Ezio?**  
Desmond asked quietly.

Ezio lets out a soft huff, "No, no, definitely not. I know that the men I hunt, they aren't any good men by any means. Maybe I am not much better, but all that I have seen of templars, however little, is vicious. They care not for any proper purpose, power is the only thing they love. People and their lives mean nothing to them. They would much rather twist them, and toy with them. As an assassin, I would like to think this is what I must feel, that the strengths I have, can be devoted to something- anything decent. For a good purpose."

Desmond stares at him quietly, something precious hanging in the room.

"I haven't always felt this way though, for a long time, being an assassin for me was about revenge, about my family, the deaths of my father, my brothers. But, for a little while at least, I've known, that there's something I'm missing, that my blade and these robes, they carry a significance that remained to me, unknown. No matter how shocking our meeting was, I'm glad to know you both now, ghost and everything. Finally, I, get to understand who I'm supposed to be, decide my true purpose. I can see it now, I think, see it in the way Altaïr moves, the intensity of his eyes. The way you both hold yourselves, the way you hold your power. I can finally see what being an assassin is about, something glorious, difficult, yet admirable."

**Ezio that was beautiful. You're pretty amazing you know, both you and Altaïr. I've seen a great many assassins, some of them were barely decent, many of them were admirable, but very few are ever like you two.**

Ezio laughs, "Altaïr? For sure. You can look at him and practically feel the greatness. Me? I wouldn't place a penny on that bargain."

**I'm not joking. Whether you accept it or not, you are nothing short of tremendous. You have a long way ahead of you, and I just know, you'll be one of the greatest assassins ever known by the end of it. Right up there, along with Bayek of Siwa, Aquilus, Kassandra, right up there with Altaïr.**

Ezio stares at the ghost, dumbstruck.

"Fratello, your belief in me is astounding, and makes me very proud. Now I will have to live up to your impossible standards or I risk wronging you." Ezio shakes his head and laughs.  
It has been long since he has felt this light, this amazed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't updated this since april and im like honestly wondering why the fuck.  
> This particular story is like so precious to me, I can't believe it took me so long to return to it.
> 
> Like, I reread it today on a whim and I was like, wait a mintue,,,,,, cheiwvlbfi what happens next,  
> then i realised my dumbass needed to update it if i wanted to see the story unfold.
> 
> On the other hand, things have been hard this year, even now theyre getting worse, and it will be even more terrible before i think everything will be fine again, tough places, but hopefully ill look back on all this in a couple of years with a smile,,,  
> to say,  
> I persevered.


	7. tell me the stories of old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What used to be, what carries on.

Ezio watches Altaïr's feet carefully, noting the careful shifts in weight.

"Tending to the balance around your weight helps you make precise movements, firm and silent. You already know this at a basic level, it is ingrained in the skills that form the fundamentals of freerunning and scaling." Altaïr speaks patiently, before climbing up the facade of the building in two quick swings.

Ezio follows easily enough but grumbles at the dull echoes of hit feet hitting the tile

"I'll teach you how to maintain your gear better, your shoes aren't primed well for being silent. Also, put less force into your movements, you hit everything so hard it always makes noise." Altaïr continues, taking a brief look at Ezio's boots.

"How am I supposed to get adequate lift if I use less force?" Ezio frowns.

"Why don't you try watching the path before you take it? There are optimum angles that can be utilized for maximum thrust with minimum force. Even the speed of your approach matters. Too fast and you gain too much momentum, that means more noise. Too little and you're not getting off the ground. Also, watch where you step, wood makes lesser noise than metal."

Ezio sighs in exasperation, "But then if I focus too much on the little details, I'll be limiting my overall speed. If I'm chasing someone, they'd be long gone. I'd increase my stealth yes, but lose out on the dexterity." 

"If you had been patient and paid attention to such things in the start, they would have been second nature by now. After enough practice, calculating the exact angles, pathing, amount of force, it becomes second nature, no need to waste a single second on them. In our time, if an initiate didn't meet the proper standards of stealth and speed, they weren't even allowed to work as novices. Strength, power, battle prowess, they are all well and important qualities, but stealth is also one of our main weapons. We are assassins, it's safer and more efficient for us to operate in anonymity."

"Well that's lovely. I know I'm absolutely horrible in comparison even to the 'novices' of your time, but I'd like to have seen you do much better in the same position as me. It's not like I ever had any proper teacher for any of these things. So, if you could stop with the ridiculous comparisons and actually tell me what to do." Ezio replies thinly, annoyed.

"Well you definitely do lack in the stealth department, and you might as well be a stranger to the word 'anonymous' or 'discrete', but rarely do even experienced assassins have a honed battle sense like yours, so you're not that bad." Altaïr smiles slightly, voice placating.

Ezio looks at him.  
He can't quite tell if he's being serious or not.

"It took you like fifteen minutes to drop me to the ground." Ezio ventures dryly.

He's not sure how that's a good demonstration of a 'honed' battle sense.

"Our fight was in several extreme ways, unfair. I have a lifetime worth of experience, fighting all sorts of people with all sorts of styles. Even beyond that, I personally also know your style of fighting intimately. Don't take it seriously. You normally do fight and win against literal hordes of guards and soldiers in all your missions, that's not something just about anyone can handle. Sure, maybe it's not what a traditional assassin does, but that's fine." Altaïr continues.

"So what you're saying is that I'm nothing like what an assassin is supposed to be. I'm loud and I can't be quiet." Ezio finishes, wincing.

"No. Stop looking at everything so deeply. You don't need to constantly doubt your worth as an assassin at every lesson. I'm not listing your weaknesses to insult you, these are only things you need to work on for a little while." Altaïr corrects him, patiently.

"For the next week or two, stop worrying about speed, and practice your ability to move silently and efficiently. You'll get used to it soon enough, and once you do your speed wont just revert back to normal, it'll be much faster than before." He continues, moving back down from the roof.

Ezio nods and jumps down as well.

"Ezio, I know you didn't have the framework or environment to learn these things like assassins would have in a more organized Creed, and trust me, when I bring in the practices of the old, I do not do it with intention to belittle you." Altaïr speaks, voice serious.

Ezio sighs, "Then why do you bring it up."

"As assassins, what we do is dangerous, but for you, half your work is decidedly suicidal." Altaïr begins, frowning, "You don't have any form of backup, half the time you have to run around scouting your targets yourself, dealing with thieves, crooks and god knows who else. Most your missions end up in outright brawls because you're just one man trying to assassinate high profile templars in their territory. That's not how the Brotherhood is supposed to work, you're going to end up dead or as a broken shell of exhaustion."

Ezio blinks in surprise, following the tense line of Altaïr's shoulders as he stalks inside.

"The initiates and novices of the Creed aren't supposed to take needlessly tough missions, or burn themselves out trying to fix everything themselves. No, they are supposed to spend time learning, honing their skills, patiently work under the protection of the master assassins and the Mentor, until the time they are ready to take up the work as master assassins themselves." Altaïr continues, mouth thinning.

"I don't mind doing what I do. It's fine. There are many people depending on me, and I know I'm capable of doing what needs to be done. Anyway, I'm one of the last assassins left here, it's not like my uncle can spend time going after targets, he needs to stay at Monteriggioni." Ezio answers, brushing it off.

"It is not fine." Altaïr turns around and scowls at him.

Ezio resists the urge to swallow as intense gold eyes glare at him.

"You are predisposed to recklessness, as this is how you have worked since you've taken up the Cowl. You carry the weight of the entire Italian Brotherhood, have carried it since you began your missions against the templars when you were what, seventeen?" Altaïr pauses and exhales heavily, "You make me worry."

Ezio smiles, making a very poor attempt at hiding it by ducking his head.

 **I told you Altaïr is all but mush inside.**  
Desmond butts in, phasing into existence behind them. He can all but feel the specter's amusement.

"Scram." Altaïr hisses.

Ezio laughs and Altaïr grabs his cowl to shove him with annoyance.

 **Also, you have some nerve, lecturing him about being reckless considering what you were like when you were younger.**  
Desmond continues, apathetic to Altaïr's rising ire.

"Oh, that sounds very interesting, what was he like when he was young?" Ezio asks the ghost, curious.  
Altaïr looks pretty young in his reincarnated body, and Ezio can just about imagine a teenaged version, softer around the edges, lacking the explosive, experienced strength of his current form.  
He was probably still amazing. 

It's hard to picture someone like Altaïr, making mistakes.  
He must've been some child prodigy or genius.

"An absolute fool. That's what I was." Altaïr answers instead, rolling his eyes.

"Really?" Ezio raises his eyebrows in disbelief.  
He's pretty sure that's probably not true.

 **Well if you're talking about skill and strength, he was practically a one in a million genius. Made a master assassin at age twenty four. Something that's practically unheard of, all throughout our history.**  
Desmond answers.

Well, Ezio can't say he's surprised to hear that.  
There's just something about him. 

"Do not make it a big deal. I was foolish regarding all the things that really mattered. I would not recommend anyone to look up to the man I was in my youth." Altaïr finishes, voice flat.

Ezio burns with curiosity but doesn't ask as he watches him stalk away.  
Now isn't the time, but he hopes one day he'd get to find out more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so im like dead stuck on trying to finish this, because this is such a rare pair, and why isn't there content on them like-
> 
> gahh

**Author's Note:**

> Ok as if this is what I needed.  
> Its the middle of my goddamn exams, i put everything on hold, but this one fucking plot bunny keeps jumping around.  
> Meh, this is going to be weird probably, but better to let it out.
> 
> Basically, to change stuff, Desmond grabs the best person he can from history, dumps his memories onto him, and sends him to a time before, ya know, Desmond existed.
> 
> So Altair lands in Ezio's time. That's it.


End file.
